


Royal Visit

by GrizzBe



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, F/M, Post-Finale, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-09 11:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18915973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrizzBe/pseuds/GrizzBe
Summary: Jon gets news that he's about to host a Royal visitor.





	1. The News

So the finale was a bit of a let down for us Jonsa shippers. I'm sure there will be plenty of fics popping up over the course of the next week or two to fill that particular void and this is my own entry. If there is a good enough response, I'll write up a second chapter to this. I have a couple of ideas but if this doesn't get any tractions I won't push it on y'all, hahah. Anyway, I hope y'all like this! As always, please let me know what y'all think!

* * *

The ax hung there for a tense second, wavering ever so slightly before the weight of the head brought it down with a satisfying thunk. The split wood fell to the side of the stump and Jon placed the ax aside as he grabbed the pieces and placed them on the stack. Just because the Night King had been defeated didn’t make the lands North of the Wall any warmer and Jon had found himself a few hands short for the task of providing fuel for tonight’s fires.

As Lord Commander, Jon didn’t have to chop wood himself, he could’ve simply assigned another Brother of the Night’s Watch or had Tormund find a volunteer from the Free Folk, but he found that he didn’t mind the task. Working up a sweat in the cold was pleasant and the rote movement allowed him to think. It had taken him a long time to get to the point where he was okay being alone with his own thoughts. They too often drudged up the memory of sitting in the dungeon, so close to where his father… Where the most honorable man to have ever lived and who had raised Jon as his own son had spent his last days. And that only brought on the memory of why he had been in the dungeon in the first place. What he had done to the woman he had sworn to serve, whom he had even loved, after a fashion. Then there were the tearful goodbyes on the dock afterward, Arya telling him she was setting sail to the West, to discover the unknown, Bran speaking cryptically, and Sansa… Well, that was still a little too much for him to think about.

It was only after a year of hard work, rebuilding the Night’s Watch, Castle Black, and settling the lands North of the Wall with the Free Folk that he found his nights increasingly more free of the demons that were tormenting him ever since he had landed on the beach at Dragonstone all that time ago. It had been a long journey, both physically and emotionally, but Jon was feeling like a new man, the man he was always meant to be.

It was when he took up the ax once again and brought it over his head that he heard the heavy footfalls and the heavier breathing of someone racing towards him. There were no more wights, and certainly no more white walkers, but Jon still found himself gripping the handle of the ax tighter. It took more effort than he was willing to admit to not turn and throw it directly at the approaching man and, instead, take a deep breath and turn calmly.

He was met by a huffing ranger, one of the new recruits almost certainly on his first trip beyond the wall.

“Lord Commander!” he said with considerable effort. The lad must’ve run all the way here. “...News! From Castle… Black!”

“Calm down, take a breath.”

The ranger nearly doubled over with the tacit permission, swallowing air as if it were trying to escape him. Jon found himself fighting back the urge to laugh, there was certainly nothing worth all this effort, Bran had the full support of the six kingdoms and the North was entirely behind Sansa. But maybe something had happened in Winterfell? An assassin? Maybe Greyworm had changed his mind and turned his armada back toward the last real enemy his queen had recognized. Suddenly, Jon found that he very much wanted this ranger to catch his breath and deliver his message.

“Alright, you’ve got it, what’s the message?”

“The Queen…” said the ranger, still catching his breath. Queen. Jon could feel his mind fuzzing over, thinking of all the terrors that might follow that word. “The Queen… Has requested an audience…”

And just like that, Jon’s mind exploded into the brightness of relief. The demons receded against a wave of joy and he could no longer help himself from laughing. “An audience! And you ran all the way out here to tell me that? When is she coming?”

“Two days… Two days, ser.”

“Two days! You could’ve sent Maester Wallace!” Maester Wallace was already well known for taking his time to get to the great hall of Castle Black for the morning meal.

“Well, ser, I didn’t drive my horse too hard on the way out here, but when I got to camp the wild-...” the ranger caught himself, “The man insisted you’d have me flogged if I didn’t run as fast as I could to tell you this news. ‘Important news Jon- The Lord Commander will want to hear’ he says.”

“And this man at the camp, what did he look like?” asked Jon, though he had an idea.

“Big man, red-” and the ranger’s eyes went wide as Jon heard the footsteps falling next to him and the large arm grab him around the shoulder.

“‘The MOST important news Jon’ll hear all month’ is actually what I said,” the low timbre of Tormund’s voice cut in from Jon’s side.

“That’ll explain it. You did good -”

“Bart. Bartholomew, Lord Commander Snow.” chimed the ranger.

“You did a good job, Bart. Head back to camp, there should still be some stew in the pot. Help yourself,” said Jon. Ranger Bartholomew took his leave gratefully as Jon turned toward his friend. “You sent the poor lad sprinting a mile from camp just to tell me Sansa was coming in two days time?”

“I can’t kill Crows anymore, you have to at least give me this,” said Tormund, but the smile told Jon that even if he asked him not to torment the Night’s Watch rangers, his request would fall on deaf ears. “And it’s true anyway, isn’t it? Sansa is coming.”

Jon felt like he was back in the courtyard of Winterfell, Theon needling his ribs after catching Jon exchanging glances with one of the maids’ girls, and his cheeks reddened, despite the cold. “I’d think the report on grain stores was more important, being able to feed everyone and all,” Jon felt the weakness in his retort even as he said the words and the look Tormund gave him only confirmed it.

“Right,” was all Tormund could say to that. “Anyway, two days! We have to prepare a feast! Remember what we had after the Long Night? How are we going to do something like that here?”

Jon thought of the pitiful kitchen they had built at camp, the two pots in the two fires and the thought of such a minuscule set-up putting out a feast fit for a queen, for Sansa made him laugh. Tormund quickly joined in as the two friends turned back toward camp, strapping the sled carrying the firewood to their backs. “What do you care anyway, Tormund? She’s not your Queen.”

And she wasn’t. The Queen in the North had a good relationship with the Freefolk, they didn’t spend their free time fantasizing about how they’d kill her at least, but she had no power over how they lived their lives.

Tormund stopped and turned toward Jon, more serious than Jon had seen him in quite some time. “I am Tormund Giantsbane and I care about what matters to you, Jon Snow.” He had grasped Jon by the shoulder.

Jon didn’t quite know how to take this and the two simply looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Jon took in Tormund’s sincere smile and returned it, the two turned back toward camp and started their long trek again, Tormund taking a swig from his goatskin before handing it to Jon. “And besides, I remember what happened the last time you and a redhead spent time together out here in this corner of the frozen world and it’s been too long.”

Jon nearly choked on the Wildling wine.


	2. Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen arrives

Well, following one of the largest and most positive reactions to any of the fics I've written, I felt compelled to write another chapter! I hope y'all like this one! I have at least one more in mind but if this continues to do well and if I can think of an actual story I might want to write, I'd definitely be up for continuing it. Feel free to let me know what y'all think! Thanks for reading!

* * *

 

The people of the camp stood in what passed as the square, men and women and the few children that had come with them all. A small flurry had kicked up but it wasn’t enough to bother the Nights Watchmen, much less the Freefolk. Jon hadn’t ordered anyone to assemble, had tried his hardest not to make a big deal of the visit, he at least didn’t want everyone watching him as he saw Sansa for the first time in ages. But the old adage had held true, and one man waiting expectantly had drawn another had drawn another. Not to mention that he was fairly certain Tormund was still trying his hardest to make the camp something worthy of hosting a Royal. Jon smiled despite himself.

The two days since they had learned of Sansa’s imminent arrival had been spent mostly constructing an actual banquet table, cleaning up his daub and wattle hut for her to stay, and building a quick temporary hut for himself. Anyone in Sansa’s retinue would have to sleep in the hall, but it should be comfortably warm at the very least. The camp’s cooks had insisted they were up to the task of creating a feast worthy of a Queen and had quickly shuffled him away looking, frankly, offended that he had even asked.

“She’s supposed to be here by now, isn’t she?” asked Tormund, leaning over to keep his voice down.

“By the time the sun set, is what the ranger reported,” whispered Jon.

Tormund, in what he certainly counted as subtlety in matters not pertaining to hunting or sneak attacks, turned to clock the sun, noticing it lying half above the treeline. “I’d say it’s pretty much set, Jon.”

Jon kept his eyes forward down the trail that she’d come through and worked hard to keep his breathing even. There wasn’t anyone North of the Wall that would mean Sansa harm. There wasn’t anyone in all the North that would try anything against her. Just as he felt his heart rate start to rise he spotted it, the telltale shine of the setting sun off of auburn hair.

“I didn’t think Crows could turn colors,” Tormund whispered into his ear as the Queen in the North drew closer and Jon found himself working hard not send his elbow into the Wildling’s ribs. That he knew it would only make Tormund burst into laughter was the main reason he didn’t.

It took a only a minute for Sansa and her guard to close the distance and despite Jon seeing that his worries were all for nothing he still found his heartbeat thudding with the hooves of the horses as they cantered up to the assembled crowd. As her horse came to a stop, Jon finally got a good look at her and his breath hitched. Her hair mussed by several days of travel from Winterfell, her cloak speckled with dirt, her crown was the only thing that looked immaculate and that more due to the design than Sansa fussing over it. Sansa looked, well, majestic. Like a Queen of the North should look and Jon couldn’t tear his eyes from her.

Couldn’t move, either, apparently, as Tormund felt compelled to nudge him toward her so that the Lord Commander might help the Queen from her mount. He approached her horse and offered his hand, her touch tingling his palm as she hopped from the saddle, landing with the elegance that Jon knew only Sansa could muster after hours of riding.

“I trust your Grace had an uneventful ride,” was all he could manage as her face came remarkably close to his.

“I always appreciate the opportunity to see the North away from the throne, Lord Commander,” said the Queen. “You should know, however, that most lords would make an attempt to meet me at their castle and not make me ride out into the wilderness for their audience.”

“I apologize, your Grace,” sputtered Jon. His mind raced as he tried to decipher to look on Sansa’s face. Perhaps being Queen had made her more rigid, brought back the spoiled girl he had known all those years ago. Then her stern look split into a wide smile and the failing light of day was brought back to noon-day radiance in an instant as she closed the short distance between them and nearly knocked the breath from Jon’s lungs as she wrapped her arms around him.

Jon had been fairly certain that only Tormund’s hugs could be physically painful but his currently swelling heart left his chest aching all the same as he closed his arm’s around her, Sansa’s face buried fully in his arms. They held each other fiercely for what felt like an eternity but what must’ve been only a few seconds before Jon reluctantly let go and stepped back. “As Lord Commander, I’d like to welcome you formally to the Northernmost outpost of the Night’s Watch and Free Folk.”

“It’s a pleasure, truly” said Sansa, her smile still radiating. Out of nowhere, a redheaded blur in animal skins wrapped Sansa into another bear hug, catching her off-guard. Her Queen’s Guard looked nervous and Jon saw several hands drift towards sword hilts. The fact that no swords were drawn spoke volumes of how far relations between Northmen and Freefolk had come in the past few years, thanks in no small part to the three people standing in the center of the courtyard.

“Tormund. Tormund! You can’t just hug a Queen!”

Tormund stopped, Sansa lifted a solid two feet off the ground and in the throes of laughter. “Oh yes, right. You did say that. But you hugged her!”

Tormund set Sansa down on her feet with exaggerated care and Sansa took a moment to catch her breath after her laughter wore off.

“It’s not quite the same, Tormund,” said Sansa through her laughter and smile.

“Your Grace,” one of Sansa’s Queen’s Guard started, not quite sure how to take the rough, if loving, treatment of the Queen.

“No worries, Meera! This here is Tormund Gianstbane! A hero of the Long Night and a leader of the Freefolk!” Sansa smiled as she clasped Tormund’s forearms.

Meera? Jon took a closer look at the Queen’s Guard in question and saw it now. Short, even by a Northern woman’s standard, Meera Reed still bristled like a fighter trained to by one of only two survivors of the battle at the Tower of Joy. A long bronze knife at her side rather than a traditional longsword. Meera gave a nod to the others and they all dismounted

“What is that intoxicating smell?” asked Sansa, sniffing at the air. “I’m absolutely famished!”

“You are in for a treat, your grace,” exclaimed Tormund as he ushered her to the hall and the awaiting banquet table. Jon merely smiled as he followed behind the two.


	3. Warm Feasts and Long Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The purpose of Sansa's trip is made clear

Well, here we are! At the meat of this little story of mine! This is all I've really got planned at the moment but I hope y'all enjoy these two little idiots being two little idiots with each other. Please let me know what y'all think! Thanks again for all the kind words!

* * *

The hall, or what passed for a hall North of the Wall, bustled with laughter and stories, heated by a roaring hearth, warm bodies, and hot food. The old wildling mothers had performed a minor miracle and cobbled together a halfway respectable feast with the paltry kitchen they were working with. Either way, the spiced pigeon and venison provided for a richer meal than the regimented meals that the camp normally ate. They had managed to scrounge up enough eating utensils for everyone but the Free Folk insisted on using their hands, “As the Old Gods intended.”

Jon was sitting back and admiring the way the fire set Sansa’s hair alight when a horn of drink was thrust in front of her face. Sansa swallowed her bite and followed the horn up to its owner, a smiling Tormund. Then the smell from the horn hit her.

“Seven hells! What is this Tormund?” She asked through coughs and laughter.

“A free folk specialty!” exclaimed Tormund, particularly proud of the beverage. Upon seeing the Queen’s canny look, however, hedged his claim, “Best not to ask what exactly is in it.”

“Come on, now! Don’t you remember making me drink this after the Long Night?” said Jon, laughing at the memory.

“Yes, but that was a celebration! A victory! We’ve won no battles here!” Sansa said, determined not to drink the rank-smelling beverage.

“The horns only half full! A victory drink would be a full horn!” roared Tormund, getting a cheer from the nearby Freefolk who didn’t quite understand why they were cheering but felt the need to anyway.

“You heard the man, no getting out of it unless you want to offend the Free Folk,” said Jon, to a side eye from Sansa before adding, “Your Grace.”

Sansa took the horn from Tormund to a round of cheers from everyone in the hall. Jon felt compelled to rub it in just a little more, knowing exactly how bad the drink was, “Go on now, I believe in you.”

“Don’t think you’re not joining in, Little Crow” Tormund said, producing another horn, seemingly from thin air and shoving it towards Jon.

“No no, I couldn’t possibly take your drink, Tormund,” started Jon, trying to hand the flagon back before a larger horn appeared in Tormund’s hand. Jon was trapped, much to the delight of Sansa.

The two exchanged a look, part mirth, part ‘This is your fault.’ “Enough! Drink!” shouted Tormund, as he tipped his horn up with one hand and helped Jon do the same with the other.

Once Jon was committed to drinking and Sansa was nearly doubled over in laughter, Tormund turned and helped her do the same, not once taking the horn from his own lips.

The night continued in much the same manner until the hearth fire ebbed and the denizens of the camp took their leave. As Jon and Sansa stood, so to did the Queen’s Guard until Sansa held out a hand, “You’re dismissed for the night, the Lord Commander will escort me.”

Meera nodded and started directing her knights toward spaces around the fire, the group unrolling pads.

As Jon and Sansa stepped outside, the biting cold finished sobering them up. “You never told me where I’ll be sleeping tonight, Lord Commander.”

Jon held out his hand, directing her toward his quarters. The two walked, crunching snow with each step.

“We’ve prepared my quarters for you, your Grace,” said Jon. “It’s not much, but it’s the nicest we’ve got up here.”

“And where are you going to stay?” asked Sansa. Did Jon hear a hint of mischief in her voice? Was the wind playing with his hearing?

“We built a small hut, I’ll be staying there tonight.”

He opened the door and stepped aside for Sansa to walk in and followed behind her. The room was quaint but warm, a small fire lit in a hearth against the wall, two chairs set in front of it, a larger bed off against the opposite wall. Jon stood by the door to make sure she had everything she needed before turning to walk out.

“Where are you going?” asked Sansa.

Jon stood with what he was sure was a dumb look on his face, “To my hut, your Grace.”

“We have a lot to discuss, Jon,” replied Sansa. “I didn’t ride all the way out here to drink Wildling wine and deprive you of your bed.”

“I didn’t suspect you had,” said Jon. “Just that it might wait till morning.”

“No better time than now,” said Sansa, sitting in one of the chairs, directing Jon to the other with her eyes. “Everyone else is asleep. Or drunk, thanks to Tormund.”

“Alright,” said Jon, torn between his body’s desire for sleep and his desire to be in Sansa’s presence, even if to discuss matters of statecraft. “Why are you here, your Grace?”

“The North needs their King,” stated Sansa bluntly. Jon’s heart rate spiked and he very nearly found himself storming out of the room.

“They don’t need a King, they already have you, your Grace,” said Jon, wrestling with his emotions. The North didn’t need a king, they were perfectly fine with the regent they had. Better than perfectly fine, every bit of news that filtered its way up to Jon told him the North was thriving.

Sansa bore into him with her eyes, deadly serious, the fire ringing her irises and somehow making her look even more intense. “That might be true -”

Jon continued, “And the second I come down south of the Wall, Greyworm, his unsullied, and Dothraki would be on ships sailing up the Knife within the month.”

“They’re already on their way, Jon,” said Sansa.

“What-” stammered Jon, caught off guard.

“They boarded their ships a week ago, headed for the North.”

“But why?”

“Yara Greyjoy,” stated Sansa, before continuing. “The Greyjoys were never going to be satisfied with any arrangement that had them serving some Southron lord. Bran’s Master of Whisperers has found them sending ships to Essos, reavers have been spotted off the coast in the Reach. We’re about due for another Rebellion of theirs.”

Yara… “But Yara is smart, she knows that any rebellion is doomed.”

“Yara is smart, yes, but if her people expect her to rebel, she wouldn’t have much of a choice,” agreed Sansa. “And the existence of a strong ally in the East appears to be enough to galvanize her people.”

Jon digested all of this information before speaking, “So what? I come south and lead your armies? Be your commander?”

“No, you’d be King, Jon,” said Sansa.

“I’m not meant to be King,” replied Jon.

“But you are!”

“No, I’m not! Your Grace, I’m barely meant to be Lord Commander,” started Jon, working himself up, the emotions that he had been suppressing for the past year bubbling up. “All I managed to do as king was give the North away to a madwoman and commit our people to a massacre at King’s Landing. No. They have a far better regent than I could’ve ever been for them.”

“And what about what I need, Jon?!” snapped Sansa. “I can’t rule by myself forever! At some point, I’ll need a king. For years, as a girl, all I could imagine was being a queen to a just king with golden hair. When I found out that king was a tyrant, I started imagining myself on a throne alone, at least I could trust that I would do what was right. And then we found each other again…”

She drifted off, ‘and the golden king became a king with dark brown hair’ left unsaid. The silence sat heavy between them, only broken by the snapping of the fire.

“Your Grace…” started Jon, his voice quiet and dry.

“And will you stop calling me that!” shouted Sansa, emotion breaking into her voice. “It’s Sansa to you, Jon! It always has been! And it will be till the end of my days.”

The two were standing now, facing each other like fighters about to draw swords but the words did more to disarm Jon than any steel ever had, and he felt himself relenting before his mind had caught up.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” asked Sansa.

“I’ll come South with you,” said Jon, choosing his words carefully. “I made a promise to protect you, Sansa. A promise I plan to keep, till the end of my days.”

“Okay…” said Sansa, caught off guard, having planned for this argument to last longer.

“Okay,” said Jon, and the two cautiously lowered back into their chairs before.

They sat in silence for a moment, entranced by the dancing flames and the charged words that had just passed between them, before Sansa broke it, “You were a far better King than you were a Lord Commander, anyway.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh, “And why is that?”

“Your bannermen never stabbed you to death, for one,” said Sansa, a wry smile creeping across her face.

Jon gave her a side eye before they both let out a hearty laugh.


	4. Southward

_ Well, here's a fourth chapter! I fear I might've made leaned too much on the lightness, given what all is happening but sometimes you just need to move forward, you know? Anyways, thanks again for all the kind words and I hope y'all enjoy this chapter! Please let me know what y'all think! _

* * *

“So, to get this right,” said Tormund as he sat on the bench heavily the next morning, “You’re headed South…”

“Aye,” said Jon, already fighting exhaustion. He and Sansa had talked late into the night and he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

“... To fight those dickless soldiers from the East…”

“Aye.”

“... Who mean to kill you and Sansa and everyone else they think their old Queen would’ve wanted to kill…”

“Aye.”

“...Because the salty queen in the West is upset and probably wants to kill you, too…”

Jon threw the words around in his head a second, “Aye.”

“... And you mean for me to stay here and take care of this camp.”

Tormund glowered at Jon and he found himself questioning for a moment why he had even attempted to have this conversation on so little sleep. “The camp needs a leader-”

“The camp could be run by the grandmothers at this point,” Tormund said, and he had a point, they had all worked hard to get it this far. It was mostly just making sure all the daily jobs were taken care of these days. “I have to tell you, Little Crow, you try and cut me out of a fight like that again, and your Queen will have to go elsewhere to get her heirs.”

Jon found himself fighting off the reddening of his cheeks, “You and the Freefolk didn’t march on Kings Landing because it wasn’t your fight, I didn’t think this was your fight either.”

“For the first time in our lives, the Free Folk are living peacefully, a Queen to the South that doesn’t mean to have us wiped from the earth, and you think I’m not interested in this fight? I’ve seen the other lords that might take over if Sansa finds her head on a spike-”

The mere mention of the possibility had Jon’s heart rate picking up.

“-And I’m not keen on them getting a chance at ruling.”

Jon deflated, knowing that arguing with Tormund was a fruitless undertaking. The big wildling would be coming South with him. Part of him was relieved at the thought, the other part was dreading the possibility of losing one more of his closest friends, possibly the last one.

At that moment, the door to the hall opened and Sansa walked in. Even though she must have felt as tired as Jon had, while Jon’s face was marked with exhaustion, Sansa’s was radiant. Her simple presence lifted Jon from the fog he had found his mind in all morning.

She spotted Jon and Tormund and began walking toward them. Jon must’ve sat up a bit straighter because Tormund only laughed as she walked closer. As Jon hurried to stand, Tormund only took another draft from his ale.

“Tormund, I trust you’ll be going South with us.”

“Of course, your Grace. I wouldn’t imagine anything else,” Tormund said, affecting his best Southron Lord farce. “Would you believe Jon here wanted me to stay at the camp?”

“I’m not surprised, Jon is a protector, after all. He wouldn’t want to risk your life, especially over a Southern war.”

“And you?”

“I’m pragmatic, I knew you’d be coming the moment Jon told you why he was going South with me.”

Tormund smiled, he had liked this flame-haired Stark girl the moment he had met her and every interaction with her since had only gone to prove his initial estimation of her correct. He took a large bite from the cold venison he had scrounged from the night before and smiled a greasy, toothy smile at Jon - it was decided.

Sansa turned her icy blue eyes toward Jon and he could feel the weight of them settle on him. “There’s no time to waste, we’ll have to leave the camp by noon.”

“The Night’s Watch doesn’t exactly allow you to abandon your oaths whenever you’d like, your Gra-” Jon caught himself as her look intensified, “Sansa. I had to get stabbed the last time.”

“Having second thoughts,  _ Lord Commander _ .”

“Absolutely not,” Jon took Sansa’s hand in his own. “Only that it could take time to settle the affair.”

“If it’s a prick you need,” said Tormund, slamming a large knife into the table. “I could cut you up a bit.”

Sansa nearly fell from the bench in laughter and it was only Jon’s grip on her hand that prevented it. Jon cleared his throat, “That won’t be necessary, Tormund.”

Later, after assigning a Brother to control of the Night’s Watch element of the camp, Jon went back to his hut to finish packing his provisions thinking of what else needed to be done. While he could go South to help Sansa under the guise of protecting Night’s Watch interests, too long an absence would be harder to explain away. He thought of Sansa’s words the night before, about becoming King and what the implications of the offer meant. He thought of Tormund’s playful threat to make him like the Unsullied and deprive Sansa of heirs and he felt the sluggishness of lack of sleep slow his thoughts like a horse traveling through thick mud.

The process of gathering his things for the trip helped him focus, though, and he set to the task like a soldier. He was surprised by how little he had brought with him, so focused on what was in front of him was he that he had left almost all of his past behind him. 

He grabbed Longclaw and strapped it to his side before exiting to find the Queen’s party, along with Tormund and a handful of other Wildling warriors, mounted and waiting, and Ghost quietly waiting by his horse. He threw his bag behind the saddle and knelt down to scratch Ghost behind his good ear and to feed him a piece of cold venison. The direwolf accepted the gift eagerly.

When everything was prepared and the goodbyes were said, the group set off just after noon and would be at Castle Black by nightfall. As the camp fell behind the group, Jon rode up next to Sansa, “I suppose Bran’ll have to write me a pardon.”

Sansa merely looked at him with a conspirator’s smile and Jon found that he quite liked it. “Bran might have nominal lordship over the Night’s Watch, but it’s the North that supplies the most men, the most provisions.”

“So I suppose you’ll be the one writing the pardon?”

The smile only intensified, showing off her teeth and Jon wondered what he would need to say next to keep it that way. “Bran and I agreed that you would be needed back in Winterfell at some point. Arya insisted that you be given the time you needed, I agreed, but we decided to take care of the formalities then.”

Jon merely looked at her and she added a laugh to her smile.

“You were pardoned before your boat even made the North, Jon.”

“So you wanted to give me a year?”

“I wanted to give you two weeks, Arya convinced me to give you two years, and Greyworm forced me to only give you one.”

Jon fell back on his horse and Sansa trotted off to confer with Meera, Tormund eventually taking her place. Jon didn’t quite like the exchange of redheads, but there were worse riding partners than Tormund. 

The Wildling gave Jon a look, “Eh? Something wrong?”

Jon shook his head to clear his thoughts and smiled, “I don’t know anything, Tormund. That’s all.”


End file.
